Kristin Garth
Fifty Steps
Innocence, you send away, in carriage,
feathered, by break of day. Two children who
dream a while, in bed clothes none disparage,
regal, undefiled, but for a prick few
will even feel inside a forearm, dream
surreal incited by a cup of warm pink milk,
another day they sleep in silk. Agleam,
remove your threadbare clothes, decorate with chill
callow skin in rose, cheeks to fingertips,
incarnadine, composed though only dressed
in shadows of blade. Pale penumbra which
some serrated silver makes on naked flesh,
the fifty steps you take towards a kill,
is naked rage to clothe in blood you spill.
feathered, by break of day. Two children who
dream a while, in bed clothes none disparage,
regal, undefiled, but for a prick few
will even feel inside a forearm, dream
surreal incited by a cup of warm pink milk,
another day they sleep in silk. Agleam,
remove your threadbare clothes, decorate with chill
callow skin in rose, cheeks to fingertips,
incarnadine, composed though only dressed
in shadows of blade. Pale penumbra which
some serrated silver makes on naked flesh,
the fifty steps you take towards a kill,
is naked rage to clothe in blood you spill.
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